I’ve been stunned by the power of persistent prayer--the unseen mystery of talking to God, of asking for the desires of your heart but holding them with an open hand, of receiving gifts that are beyond your wildest dreams and realizing they are yours, not because you deserve it, but because you simply asked.

For the last few years I’ve been making a conscious effort to increase my personal awareness of race in America. I’ve written about it a few times, but this is a conversation that needs to continue. And it’s Black History Month, so I’m going to talk about it again.

Like most people I meet, if I hear a certain songs, I get instantly transported to different moments in my past. An unfortunate number of these memories have to do with guys, some with deep sadness or immense joy, and some are just memories of driving to school. There are so many songs and albums that I’ll love, or hate, forever because of what they bring up. Here are some of them.

I’m not an expert on this city by any means (I have the credibility of a long-term tourist), but New York has been the backdrop to significant moments I don’t want to forget. The river is rushing past, leaving barely enough time to savor the sweetness, saltiness, or whiskey-sour-ness of a moment until it’s gone. So, as a three-month-old rookie to this city, here are a few places of significance so far.

I stand on the empty hardwood floor that used to be my living room; the same floor Jerica and I used to tiptoe around to not disturb our cranky downstairs neighbor. Every little sound is magnified by the echoes of an empty room. The white TV cable is coiled on the ground, and the oven clock gives off the only shred of light. It’s dark and empty in here.

I feel like I’m being handed both of my dreams, holding them with trembling hands, filled with a sense of wild exhilaration and heavy responsibility, hoping I don’t drop them, hoping they don’t get taken away.